The Return
by Tibbins
Summary: The Reichenbach Fall spoilers! Three weeks after the fall, John returns to 221B to face his demons. What will he find? Johnlock :D cute and fluffy little ficlet


**Hello Sherlock fandom :D I haven't seen you before. Nice to meet you ^.^**

**This is just a short little one shot that is set after the most recent episode ... season 2 episode 3 (wasn't it AWESOME?) ... I got inspired ^.^**

**This is dedicated to my good fangirl friend Kitty (I don't know her fanfic name but she knows who she is) because she's epic :D**

**I don't own Sherlock ... John does ;)**

**Enjoy ^.^**

Three weeks. It had been three weeks since Sh -_his_- death and John Watson stood on the doorstep of 221b Baker Street for the second time. It was two days after the funeral. After he had poured his heart out to a dead man who wasn't listening. But that was the thing with Sh -_him_- he never listened. To anyone. Well … that was a lie. He listened when he _wanted _to. When he was summing someone up or puzzling something out. But he didn't listen when someone contradicted him, or told him off. And as John stood there on the stone doorstep looking at the black door with the brass knocker, he was bombarded with memories. Times where Sh -_he_- didn't listen, or listened too much. Times where they argued about murderers or harpoons or milk. Times when he would come home (for this place _had _become their home) to heads in the fridge, or plastic dummies hanging from the doorframes, or eyes in the microwave or a tongue in the kettle or an arm in the bath ... and not even bat an eyelash.

He raised his shaking left hand and knocked.

Mrs Hudson answered, her eyes widened and filled with tears when she saw him. She stood aside and asked him if he wanted a cup of tea. John declined. He never could do anything _trivial _now. Everything had to have a meaning, a purpose. But _nothing_ had a purpose any more. His purpose was dead and rotting in a wooden box in London cemetery. Mrs Hudson nodded at him and bustled away, leaving him to his own devices. John stared after her, wondering briefly why she hadn't left yet. She was obviously too upset to go into the flat. The dust on the stairs was proof of that. He shook himself, refusing to be dragged back into that mindset. It had taken him over a week to stop analysing everything he saw; hoping that that was how Sh -_he_- saw it. He wondered again why Mrs Hudson didn't move away from her grief, she had been like a mother to both boys. But then a voice in his head spoke, deep and seductive, the voice of danger itself

'_Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall_' John allowed himself a wry smile

'Shame on me' he muttered as he placed his foot on the first stair. The climb took longer than it usually did; John paused on every step, remembering the sound of each one, trailing one hand along the wall, the other on the banister. He hesitated at the top. The door was closed. If he tried, then John could almost hear the strains of a violin, being plucked into sound, he could hear the bow sliding across the strings, creating something beautiful, filling the room with music and emotion. If not the violin, then John could see _him_ in his armchair, elbows on his knees, fingers interlocked by his lips, just staring into space; his dark curls catching the light and his grey eyes lost in thought.

John swallowed hard. Knowing that he wouldn't see what his mind was picturing. He couldn't seem to be able to convince himself so he twisted the doorknob and pushed, to provide his brain with the evidence it couldn't deny.

All was silent._ This is wrong_ thought John. This flat hadn't been silent since -_he_- had moved in. The clinking of glass, the violin, the rustling of paper, the clicking of the laptop, the bleep of a text, the bubble of experiments, the sounds of their voices, even the bang of gunfire. _Something _should always be making noise in this flat. John stared around the musty room. Dust was settling on everything, the curtains were open; the kitchen was full of boxes, containing glass things that John had no idea what to do with. Not knowing what else to do, John walked over to the mantelpiece and studied the skull. Sher -_he_- had called it a _friend_ when they had first met. Well, almost. This bone was the closest thing to Sher -_him- _before John had entered his life.

John collapsed into his usual chair, imagining a pale figure in a dark trench coat pacing the flat, spouting nonsense at him, giving him The Look, which was so infuriating that John was almost angry with himself for missing it. The ex-soldier let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. He would never see or hear those things again.

He still hadn't fully come to terms with that yet. He fingered the worn edge of the cushion on the armrest. He couldn't _accept _that Sherl -_he_- was gone. He had been too vibrant, too unique, too full of life to have splattered himself on the street outside of Barts. John visibly flinched away from that thought. Ella, his therapist, had tried to get him to tell her the things that he hadn't said. He had refused. Knowing that those things would _never _be said now, because they were meant for _him _and him alone. He had said some of them to the gravestone. The slab of black polished marble (Mycroft had spared no expense) that stated _his _name. . . Sherlock Holmes. And dates of birth and death. Nothing personal had been added. There had been no point _'beloved brother' _would have been a lie _'Consulting Detective' _held little meaning, and '_egotistical dick' _wouldn't have been appropriate. John had been tempted to put '_He changed many lives_' but that was an understatement. Too general. Sherlock had liked details, specifics, and John just couldn't bring himself to engrave '_He changed my life forever_'

John felt a tear slide down his cheek. He had refused to let more than six tears fall at the funeral before he schooled his face back into the blank mask he had had to wear in Afghanistan. The mask that Sherlock Holmes had seen right through. He stared at the spray painted face on the wall, the violin by the sofa, the window where Sherlock had stood and contemplated the world; and let them fall now. His breath hitched as he quietly sobbed out his grief for the man who knew him better than his sister. Better than he knew himself. The man who _he _had known, in a roundabout way. He had known when to pressure Sherlock, when to leave him alone, how to read the signs of a danger night. He had known that he guessed, that he was truly an idiot and he had known that deep down, Sherlock had _cared_.

John brought his hands up to cover his face. He jumped when his phone beeped, but ignored the text. The only people who texted him were Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly or … well ... it was either Mycroft, Lestrade or Molly, none of which he had the energy for right now. Nonetheless he rubbed his face and stood, turning towards the kitchen.

What happened next he could barely comprehend. The front door banged, there were footsteps on the stairs, a faint scream from Mrs Hudson and then a voice from behind him

'John'

He froze. His internal organs stopped working. His brain went into overdrive. _It couldn't be_

'No' he denied, shaking his head and swallowing hard 'No!'

'John' said the voice calmly 'look at me' John did, turning slowly; he kept his eyes shut until he faced the voice, and then he opened them. Dark curls, sharp cheekbones, silver eyes, full lips, pointed chin, pale throat, smooth chest, that scarf, and that _damn trench coat_!

'Sherlock' he whispered. Drinking in the sight of his flatmate/detective partner/friend who stared back at him, impassively, only his eyes betraying his feelings, his relief, his slight fear 'How?'

'Does it matter?' the Consulting Detective asked; John shook his head again, well aware that his mouth was agape, he closed it quickly. He was somewhat relieved that Sherlock didn't point out that John had just been crying (it was stupid to think that he hadn't noticed)

'I was there you know' he continued on a seemingly unrelated note

'There … what?' John couldn't bring himself to be coherent right now

'At the funeral, I was there' Sherlock specified 'I heard what you said' John's mouth fell open again

'But … but that was … Sherlock that was _two days_ ago! And it's been _three weeks_! You let me -_us- _grieve for you for three weeks? You let Mycroft plan a funeral and you watched us all saying our goodbyes to you and you don't say a damn thing!' John strode across the room and grabbed hold of Sherlock's lapels shaking the man 'I thought you were _dead!_' he cried. Sherlock hadn't tried to stop John; instead his arms awkwardly encircled the younger man and patted him gingerly on the back

'I know' he said gently, letting John begin to sob into his chest 'I'm sorry' John drew back, eyes clear once more, eying him warily

'Why?' he asked suspiciously; Sherlock sighed

'Three weeks was the maximum time it would take for Moriarty's men to give up. I couldn't risk revealing myself too early. It would have put you all in danger and I … I wouldn't … I wouldn't like that' he fumbled. Obviously confused by this concept of emotion 'So I stayed away' he finished. Then he added 'I am sorry'

'I forgive you' they stared at each other for another full minute, then both their faces split into wide grins, the laughter bubbling up inside them, laughter that hadn't been heard for just under a month

'So' said Sherlock lightly when they regained control of themselves 'dinner?'

'Starving' John replied with a smile, they both turned towards the door. John's face didn't change when he felt Sherlock's hand slip into his. But he squeezed back. And for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes thought that he might quite like this caring lark.

**So ... dun dun duuuuuuun! What do you think? I tried to make it as cute as possible ^.^**

**I hope you liked it :D Please review, I really love feedback**

**Thanks for reading**

**Love you all **

**Tibbins xx**


End file.
